Happiness
by CJS-DEPPendent
Summary: Just a quick one shot I came up with post "The Softer Side". What if it didn't end there? what if "This is the only me you get" wasn't enough to end the conversation? What if ... HUDDY Please read and Review.


_**Disclaimer:** I don't own House MD, the characters or the song in the story. But oh, the fun I'd have if I owned House and Cuddy ... ; )_

_**A/N:** Ok, so this just popped into my head after watching "the softer side" and refused to leave until I wrote it. Seeing as I need my brain cells to study for my exams, I figured I'd just have to write it. So here it is. It's just a sweet Huddy one shot. Though there might be a bit of angst in there at some points ... but that just makes it all the more funner, right? I'm rating this at T, probably a high T ... maybe even a low M if you're really, REALLY picky ..._

_So, I hope you enjoy it and please review, Thanks._

* * *

"Why do you care if I'm happy?" he asked, his eyes fixed on hers, waiting, once again, for an answer that'd let him show her the truth.

He'd tried it before. But every time he put the ball in her court, she just tossed it back. All it would take was for her to pick that ball up, march up to the metaphorical net between them and talk some sense into him. Because he couldn't do it alone, he couldn't be the one to put himself out there, he was too damaged to make himself that vulnerable. But she could. She could just tell him. Just say the words, and he'd know, and he'd reciprocate.

But again, she didn't answer what he wanted. What he needed. She spouted out some rationalisations about him, misery and the drugs. He didn't want to hear it. He had nothing else to say. Especially not now.

She wanted him to take the drugs. To be happy, and cordial. But he was right. There was only one 'him'. He couldn't do his job on the methadone. There was a reason why he didn't humour patients and their families, they were always wrong. He couldn't start now. That boy could have died because he was 'nice'.

But she still wanted him to take the drugs. And that part of him that wanted her did too. If he took the methadone, he'd be the man she needed. Caring, sweet, understanding. But he was Greg House, all he had was his job, and he wasn't about to risk that. Not for a situation where he'd make himself prone to more pain.

So he walked away.

As he drove home, he thought. He knew she'd be hurt, or sad, or surprised, but he didn't look back. It was easier this way. She hadn't wanted him at Rachel's ceremony. She'd told him so herself. He'd screwed it up. He should have kissed her, not …

The memory made him hate himself. He made her walk away when they'd been as close as ever to coming clean. He'd been an insensitive idiot, and then he'd gone out with his actress. And since then, she'd been distant, cold.

His house screamed everything about him. Medical journals everywhere, scotch bottles on every piece of furniture, a Vicodin bottle in every corner, drawer, box and Lupus textbook. His Piano was covered in music sheets. Some by great musicians, other by him.

But it was his sanctuary. No one there judged him; he was safe to be himself. Within those four walls, he didn't have to hold up his reputation. He had, on several occasions, let his emotions take the best of him. Those pent up frustrations and passions, the ones he refused to let out. They'd creep up on him during the night, refusing to be drowned out by his Vicodin or the copious amounts of scotch he downed before sleep. Leading him to his guitar or piano, to those soft melodies and perfect pitches that took him away from reality into a world where nothing else mattered. Where nothing else was going on.

That was where he was now. At his trusted piano. His fingers caressing the pearly white keys, his feet resting on the peddles. It was a beautiful tune. So simple, so delicate. So true.

* * *

Cuddy was in tears by the time she reached her office. Once again, it had been there, right in front of her. Not just metaphorically, but physically in front of her. She could see it in his eyes. He was almost pleading. And she wanted to say it. So much.

_I care._

That would have been enough. There wasn't even need for '_I like you_', and she'd have to go nowhere near that nagging truth of '_I love you_'. Just a simple '_I care_' would have done it. He'd have understood.

But she'd been scared. She didn't know whether to trust him or not. Whether it was the drugs, the man or the detox talking. So she'd talked about his misery. About his fear of change. And he left her. Again. As always.

Now she wanted nothing more than to go back, do it over. It always happened this way. She did something she thought was for the best then regretted it. There wasn't anything she could do to take it back. There never was. Or, at least, that's what she always thought. But tonight, for whatever reason, she thought differently. This had gone too far. They had each hurt each other too much, for too long, and for what? For fear of telling the truth? Of letting the other know what they really and truly wanted?

No.

It was going to stop, and if he couldn't be adult enough to stop it himself, then she was. And she would.

So Cuddy ended up in her car, driving the oddly familiar streets to his home, calling Rachel's babysitter to warn her of the change of plans and guaranteeing an extra 50 bucks for her time.

50 bucks? If that was all it took, she should have done this earlier. Heck, if it took 100, 200, 1000 bucks … she still should have done this earlier.

* * *

Oddly enough, the walk from her car to the door passed in a blur. One moment she was looking at the green door from the comfortable interior of her Lexus, the next she was standing by it. Knocking. Hoping.

She could hear the faint tune coming from inside. It didn't stop as she knocked. She hadn't expected it to. So she tried the door. Locked.

"House!" she called, knocking, a little harder this time. Just a little.

* * *

He could hear her. He'd known she was there from the moment he heard a car stop by his door. Not that he'd felt her presence or any cliché idea like that. But he'd known it wasn't Wilson – his car had a decidedly less smooth engine than hers. And no one else would go there. No one liked him enough to.

But he didn't want to open the door. He was in his safe zone, completely comfortable and vulnerable, he'd had a scotch, he was relaxed, the words were falling from his lips, his fingers were finding the right keys, and having the woman he was thinking about show up there, strangely enough, would most definitely ruin that.

So he ignored her. And continued playing.

_I know just where to find the answers;  
And I know just how to lie.  
I know just how to fake it,  
And I know just how to scheme;  
I know just when to face the truth,  
And then I know just when to dream._

He sighed as the knocks persisted. She really had no sense of beat.

_And I know the night is fading,  
And I know that times gonna fly;  
And I'm never gonna tell you everything  
I've got to tell you,  
But I know I've got to give it a try._

He looked up at the door again. This time imagining the beauty standing behind it. She wasn't going to give up. She never did.

* * *

She heard the words now, faint but sure. He was really singing. She didn't know him like this, not since his college days. Not since the days when there'd still been a possibility of happiness in his horizon.

_Every time I see you all the rays of the sun  
Are streaming through the waves in your hair;  
And every star in the sky is taking aim  
At your eyes like a spotlight,  
The beating of my heart is a drum, and its lost  
And its looking for a rhythm like you.  
You can take the darkness from the pit of the night  
And turn into a beacon burning endlessly bright.  
I've got to follow it, cause everything I know, well its nothing till I give it to you._

"House" she banged on the door again. She couldn't just stand there, listening to this. She needed to talk to him. Tell him … anything, everything. Something.

* * *

Slowly, House's fingers began to lose their strength, the melody grew faint, he stopped singing as he looked at the door. One hand moved to grab his scotch and the other missed a few notes. He was distracted. She'd ruined his peace for him. The kind of peace that he found only in the deepest of solitudes. The kind he craved. The kind his feelings were pushing him away from.

It was those very feelings that pushed him from his stool to the door. It was them who made him lean his head against the door as one eye watched her through the small glass hole. She was gorgeous. Dark hair, fair skin, green-grey eyes; the kind no one ever forgets. She was heavenly. He didn't deserve her. And he didn't blame her for hating him. But he couldn't take this. He couldn't take dealing with her there. Not when he felt his love for her course through his entire body, when even the blindest of men would have been able to see it.

"House!" she called again "please …"

Sighing, House resigned himself to the fact that, the sooner he let her in, the sooner she'd be gone, and the sooner he could get back to his safe retreat in the corner of his living room with his best friends, Jack Daniels, Glenfiddich and that odd bottle of JB that someone, at some point had left over.

"Hi" she breathed when he opened the door. He looked different. She didn't know what it was. But at some point between him leaving and that moment right there, House had changed. The look in his eyes was at the same time softer and harsher. More determined and more withdrawn. It was oddly mesmerizing.

"What do you want?" he asked, maybe a little too defensively.

"To, uh …" she looked down at her shoes then back up at him "can I come in?"

House merely sighed and stepped aside. This was already taking too long. Her eyes were already analysing his face, his vulnerability was already becoming evident.

"Uh …" she started looking around, unsure as to what to do. Should she sit? Should she get straight to the point? Should she wait for him to say something?

"Well?" he asked, standing halfway between the front door and the couch by which she stood.

"Well, I wanted to …"

Running a hand across his face, House squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them, taking in a clearer vision of her.

She was wearing the same clothes as she had when he'd last seen her, but she'd added a jacked. The kind that only re-emphasised her curves. Her beautiful shape, each curvature hugged tightly by her skirt, shirt, skin. She was incredible. And it scared him. He felt like the school nerd with a crush on the prom queen. She deserved much better, and she could, if she tried, get it.

"House?" she asked as she noticed his eyes glaze over. Was he on drugs again? Was he OK? Preoccupied, Cuddy took a step towards him. But he stopped her with his eyes. He didn't want sympathy, or pity, he didn't want any emotion from her, not any that would worsen his condition.

"Again, did you come here for a reason, or …" he began, again knowing his tone was overly harsh, but needing her to go before he did something stupid.

"Yes, I …" she sighed and, looking at the couch, decided that, if he wasn't going to invite her to sit, she'd just have to do it herself.

"You … ?" he said looking at her, still standing in his spot, but feeling the forces of physics slowly pull him in her direction.

"I wanted to talk to you about, uh, well …" she looked away from him. This had seemed much easier when it was just an image of a heroic moment in her mind. "… the methadone"

House sighed angrily "When I'm on the thing, we need to talk about it. When I'm off it, we need to talk about it. Which is it?" he asked

"I don't …" she began again but had to stop as his angry stare bore into her frightened one "… the methadone made you …"

"And idiot!" he cried lifting his hands angrily, his cane jerking oddly to one side as he did so "I've told you. This …" he motioned to himself "… is the only 'me' you get!"

"No one asked for a different 'you' House, but professionally, the methadone did hel …" she started looking up at him as she spoke.

"If you're not asking for a different 'me', then why do you want me to take the drugs?" he asked, this time not angrily, it was a simple question "is it really because you want me to be nice _professionally_? Because you never seemed to have a problem with my MO before …" he said taking several steps towards the couch as he spoke.

She didn't know what to answer. She didn't know _why_ she wanted him to take the pills.

"… I told you House," she started looking away from him "I, I want you to be happy"

"The drugs don't make me _happy_!" he said, again his voice raising "They take away my pain. But I'm not miserable because of my pain, Cuddy! Not only!"

"Then why are you?" she asked, now standing to face him, each on their side of the couch.

He looked away, not knowing what to answer, hating that he'd let the conversation get this far.

"House?" she whispered looking at him intently, seeing the inner battle within him use his face as a battle field.

"I just …" he clenched his jaw. He couldn't say it, he couldn't risk it.

"You what?" she asked, desperately trying to understand what it was that had him so conflicted.

"I can't ever be …" he began but stopped, raising his eyes to hers, hoping she'd understand.

Her deep intake of breath told him she had. "You already are, House"

"No I'm not!" he was angry again, he wouldn't have her settle for him, not when she could do so much better "I'll never be the guy who buys flowers, who takes you on dates, tells you he loves you 24/7, picks you up from work and holds you when you cry!" he yelled, anger evident on his face, but there was something else there too, something that broke Cuddy's heart "No amount of drugs you give me will make me that guy, Cuddy …" he finished, his voice trailing off

"I don't want that guy, House" she said calmly, watching as his eyes glistened at her every word "I've met that guy, I've gone out with that guy … I don't want him! Not for me. As a doctor, that guy, the reliable, caring, compassionate man is perfect, but he's not what I want House. I don't want you to ever change, not with drugs, not with anything. Not for me" she sighed "You're the only 'you' _I_ want"

"That's not true" he said rounding the couch slowly, his pose slightly threatening "you want me to change. You need the 'nice' me, the one who asks permission before everything he does. That's who you need. You want to give me the drugs, because they'd give you that. They'd make me what you want."

"House …" Cuddy sighed as he stood in front of her, his breathing heavy, his tall figure towering over hers "… I wanted you to take the methadone because I want you to be happy. I don't want you to be in pain. I don't want to see you limp and remember that _I_ was the one who did that to you. You smile when you're on the drugs, you're the guy you were back then. I though …" she sighed again "… I _thought_ the methadone made you happy"

House just shook his head, his mouth slightly opened, the distance between them finally registering for him "… it doesn't"

"I'm sorry" she whispered, feeling overwhelmed by the moment.

"What for?" he asked leaning his head back a little to look into her eyes

"… that you're not happy"

"Why do you care so much, Cuddy?" he asked her again, knowing, from her earlier words, the answer, but still needing to hear her say it.

"I …" she began, looking away from him

"Yes?" he asked again, bringing a hand to her chin and turning her head, gently, to look at him

"I care about you … I, I …" she closed her eyes, unable to watch his reaction, scared that it'd be mocking, rejecting.

But the sensations that flooded her body told her it was everything but. First there was the heat spreading from that spot on her hip. The spot his hand was touching. The spot where he was slowly applying pressure, bringing her closer to him. Then there was his other hand. The back of his fingers tracing the line of her jaw all the way to her ear then down to cup her neck. She felt her jugular thumping and was sure he felt it too. As the moment passed and his actions brought them closer, she daren't open her eyes.

"Lisa?" he whispered, his lips inches from her forehead.

"Hm?" she hummed in response.

When he merely stroked her jaw further, she understood and, slowly, cautiously, opened her eyes. The intense blue stare that she was met with was something the likes of which she'd never seen. His pupils were dilated, not from the drugs but from the moment, from her presence, their closeness. There was a question in them too. A question that required no words in answer.

Slowly, Cuddy raised her hand to his chest and, pulling lightly at his shirt, brought him closer, and closer. He bent his neck forwards, she tilted her head backwards. And they were inches from each other. Their breaths mingling between them as they held each other's stare.

Then everything went dark, and as the sense of sight vanished, the others stood on alert. Cuddy could think of nothing but his smell as he approached her, the soft, tender touch of his thumb as it drew circles on her neck, the sound of his soft breathing, shallow and quick. Then finally, there was his taste. Sweet, yet spicy. It was even better than she remembered from all those years ago. With a light touch, she was gone, she felt her body melt onto his and their chests connected, his hands both moving to the small of her back, forcing any distance between them shut.

For House, it was the happiest he'd felt in as long as he could remember. He could feel that she didn't just pity him, or admire him. She really did like him. Maybe even more. Her taste was sweet, delicious, addictive. No drug he'd ever tasted had this effect on him. As their tongues intertwined, tasting, testing, he knew he was gone. Everything about her consumed him in that moment. The sweet, flowery smell emanating from her hair, the feel of the smooth slopes of her back as his hand found its way under the fabric of her shirt, the sound of her quick, irregular breaths as they shifted their heads, faces, mouths. Looking for a different angle to explore, a way to increase their contact.

Then they started falling. Cuddy backwards, House forwards. His leg, surprisingly feeling numb as he used it to stop her from falling. Whether this was the remnants of the methadone, or the effects of Lisa Cuddy, he did not know. Nor did he care.

At that moment, he cared only about the beautiful woman in his arms. He'd been dreaming about this moment for weeks, months, even, if he were to be completely honest, years. Ever since that first time, every word she spoke to him, every time she touched him, be it intentional or not, everything, it made him want her more. Need her more.

And it was the same for her. She had been wanting this for as long as she could remember. That one night after Stacy left had not been enough to dilute her need for him. The incessant, irrational need that she'd carried within her since college.

She no longer cared that she was his boss. And he didn't care about his leg, or the hideous scar that lay there. They only cared about each other, about showing what they could never put into words.

Words weren't permanent, they meant nothing. But actions. Actions stuck, actions were the only way they could truly prove to each other that this was for real.

Their kiss was gentle now, it wasn't meant to be claiming, or passionate, or any of the things the previous ones had been. This one was meant to be revealing. And it was. The slow, cautious movement of his closed lips over hers was enough. If she never heard him say it, she'd still know. In that moment, Greg House loved her.

* * *

The next morning, House awoke to Cuddy's green eyes. She was lying half on him, half off. Her hand resting on his chest, her head on his shoulder. As he saw her, and the love emanating from her stare, he felt happiness.

He was genuinely happy. Happy that she was still there with him, that her leg was wrapped around his possessively, that her fingers were drawing shapes on his chest, that her hair was covering his shoulder and arm. Just happy to have taken a shot.

* * *

**_Thanks for reading and please review :D  
CJS-DEPPendent_**


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